


positional play

by tvfanatic97



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Rivals to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28057620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvfanatic97/pseuds/tvfanatic97
Summary: “When do you go to Paris?” Peter asks as he finishes off the rest of his beer, only his first.“In five weeks.”He places the now empty bottle on the counter then turns to her. “Well, you’ll need a good trainer. Definitely not Harry Osborn.”“Oh really?”“Yeah, you’ll need someone…better. Someone more, um, mature.”“That's questionable,” she teases.-Or: MJ teams up with her rival Peter to train and prepare her for a chess match on the international stage. A 'The Queen's Gambit' AU.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	positional play

**Author's Note:**

> Just fyi- this is an au of episodes 5 and 6 (the ones focused on Beth/Benny) + some bits of my own mostly, not the whole show.

MJ stands in front of the large corkboard that has each player participating in the tournament’s name listed along with a bracket that shows who’ll be facing who during the first round. Her eyes scan intently over the name of each player, each of whom she has studied in depth—reading game transcripts from their matches over the last year and beyond, reading their _Chess Review_ interviews, reading any books any of them have published (mostly one of them), anything she could get her hands on.

She likes to study each potential opponent in great detail to try and get into their head so she can work out their weaknesses and exactly what approach she can take to beat them. MJ likes to be able to control the way a match will play out, likes to be able to predict things hence why she always spends hours reading and studying before any match. Having that extensive knowledge on her opponent is comforting going into any game and often gives her an upper hand, she doesn’t like unpredictability or—

“Michelle Jones,” a slightly smug voice cuts through her thoughts, and she can hear the smirk in his voice before she’s even turned to face him.

This is the first time she’s seen Peter Parker since her embarrassing defeat at his hands at the US open in Las Vegas last year and there’s a small, juvenile part of her that’s equal parts embarrassed to face him for the first time since, just as another part of her wants to defiantly face him and let him know that there won’t be a repeat performance like Vegas this time round. She’s going to beat him.

She turns to face him, noting that he is indeed smirking just as she expected. “Parker,” she greets keeping her voice even, composed even if she doesn’t quite feel that composed in his presence.

“We meet again,” he says in a ridiculous put-on deep voice, clearly trying to emulate a Bond villain to humorous effect.

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself giving him the satisfaction of getting a laugh or even a smile out of her, instead offering him an exasperated roll of her eyes before she turns back to pretend to study the board very intently even if she’s finding it hard to focus on anything since he sidled up to stand beside her.

Peter is not dissuaded by her reaction, or lack thereof, to him, choosing to plough on with the small talk. “So, how much time have you spent researching each player up on this board then?”

She’s momentarily taken aback that he has apparently noticed that she does that, but schools her features. “Not much.” She turns back to face him before saying the next part, “There’s not much to the competitors. All of them are incredibly simple, boring.” She punctuates her word by letting her eyes travel up and down over him, during which she unwittingly notices how good he looks in a charming, boyish way though she quickly rids herself of that observation before snapping her gaze back to his face.

“You are something, you know that Michelle Jones?” Peter responds, unperturbed by her attempt to take a jab at him.

And there it is again, that flustered feeling he always seems to bring out of her.

Without saying another word to him she turns on her heels to head up onto the small stage and take her seat ready to face her first opponent.

* * *

She beats her first opponent embarrassingly easily—embarrassing for him, that is. The match is over after just fifteen moves, not that she pays much attention to the game really; Davis is a lazy player who always goes with what’s familiar and never adjusts his approach based on the opponent in front of him, making it so she beats him without having to exert much effort.

The second match is more of the same, another opponent who plays exactly as they have played in every match they’ve played for their entire career prior to facing her. MJ is able to predict exactly what they’ll do on a move-by-move basis, meaning victory comes swiftly with him, too.

None of them challenge her, and her bored mind starts to wander. It wanders to Peter specifically, who sits just two tables away from her, easily making his way through each player he faces just like she does. Her eyes rove from his unruly curls, hair standing in every direction from his hands running through it over and over, down to his eyebrows which are furrowed in concentration, her gaze lingering on the left one in particular which has hairs that seem to have a mind of their own, to his pursed lips before landing on his throat, the bob of which as he swallows causes her to swallow too, something unnameable overcoming her in the moment.

She’s so distracted by studying Peter that she almost jumps up when a voice announces to the small audience of local reporters who were starting to doze off on the uncomfortable lecture hall seats, that she’ll be facing Peter in the final which will be held the day after tomorrow.

She smiles politely as everyone claps for them, her gaze momentarily meeting Peter’s across the room who is clapping along with everyone else. She gets the distinct feeling that he was watching her prior to her eyes meeting his based on the way his gaze is fixed on her and her alone, like there’s no other person in the room besides the two of them. His stare so intense that she finds herself unable to hold it for much longer and has to look away.

Once they’ve wrapped up for the day she quickly makes her escape, stopping by the food hall to grab some food to go before she locks herself up in the single dorm that’s her accommodation for the duration of the competition.

After she’s finished scoffing it down she starts reading through all the material she’s gathered on Peter Parker, including the transcript of their US open match, or at least she _tries_ to. She’s restless and cannot seem to concentrate.

Peter beating her all those months ago had been so unexpected that he’d flustered her, throwing her off-kilter and for weeks after she’d spent each moment studying every part of their match to figure out how he managed to do it. 

For years she’d kept up with the career of the boy-wonder out of Queens, reading every piece on him published in _Chess Review._ She’d built up an idea of him in her head having studied him and his play so intently, feeling some weird kinship with him despite never meeting him as two young players who were soaring through the ranks and were destined for either greatness or for a nervous breakdown by twenty-one as was the fate of most child geniuses. She’d felt a connection to him, admiring him just as she viewed him as her rival, wanting to beat him so badly that she’d been crushed when he defeated her last year. Still carrying the weight of that defeat to this day.

Realising she’s thinking about Peter more than she’s studying their last match or doing any actual prep work, she decides to take a break and head to the food hall to grab a coffee and maybe some chocolate, she always craves something sweet whenever she’s stressed in the lead up to a big match.

When she gets to the food hall she’s stopped in her tracks by a familiar voice calling out her name as soon as she steps foot into the building, like he was waiting for her or something equally ludicrous, before he beckons her over to the table where he sits with two guys she recognises; Edward Leeds and Eugene Thompson. She’d studied both of their games in preparation for today—they’re decent players, some of the best in the country though Edward has a tendency to play it a little safe whilst Eugene has a tendency to take too many risks that leave his valuable pieces vulnerable.

“Michelle Jones, I’d like to introduce you to Ned Leeds and Flash Thompson,” Peter says, his hands making a sweeping motion to gesture between them.

MJ offers a closed lip smile to both boys, small but polite. “Nice to meet you.”

“Actually, we’ve already met. You kicked my ass today,” Ned says in greeting, tone weirdly gleeful considering she apparently beat him which she’s embarrassed to admit she doesn’t really remember given that her mind had been, _otherwise preoccupied_.

She raises her eyebrows minutely, unsure of how to respond or what’s going to come next following his declaration. Since she first started participating in competitions, most men’s— because her opponents have unfortunately almost all been men in the nearly ten years she’s been playing chess— fall into one of two categories: gracious acceptance underscored by a measure of admiration at having been defeated by someone who’s not only younger than them, but is a _Black woman_ , or they look at her with disdain, disgusted and disbelieving at the prospect of having been beaten by a lowly _Black_ _woman_. Her dual identity as a Black person and as a woman always factors into either reactions, but she’s since learned to stop being apologetic about any of it.

She releases the breath she was holding when Ned finally speaks, proving that he falls into the former camp of defeated opponents as he says, “After I finished sobbing into my blankie, I studied our game and it made me realise that I have a tendency to stick to the same predictable play which makes it easy for opponents to predict my every move and one up me so now I know what to work on for the future. So it was kinda good you kicked my ass. Thank you.” He gives her a wide, toothy grin to show the earnestness of his words. MJ immediately decides she likes Ned.

Peter cuts in to the blossoming moment of friendship, “Michelle, help us settle a debate we’re having. It’s white’s move, what would you do?”

MJ turns her attention away from Flash and Ned and focuses on the board, her eyes scanning each piece individually to orientate herself then she goes through every possible move white could make, the chess pieces almost coming to life before her as she tries to visualise every possible move and resulting outcome of each move.

Finally, she makes up her mind, “Typical mid-game Ruy Lopez.”

“Well, yeah,” Peter says quietly, leaning forward and bringing his arm to rest on his elbow on the table in a move that causes the muscles of his forearm to contract then relax. MJ swallows then focuses her gaze back on his face just as he speaks again, “But what’s the move?”

Instead of telling him, MJ bends forward and moves the knight.

“See!” Peter exclaims, once again leaning back in his chair and away from her as he shifts his attention back to the other two men.

“Maybe you’re right,” Flash begrudgingly admits.

“No, I _know_ I’m right,” Peter argues and MJ doesn’t miss the way Flash rolls his eyes. “And Michelle sees things the way I do.” He turns back towards her throwing her a small, pleased smirk that causes a giddy feeling to wash over her.

MJ just shrugs.

“Pawn move’s too weak, right?” Peter keeps probing at her.

“The pawn move only works if he moves his bishop,” she responds. Though she’s explaining the logic to Ned and Flash, her gaze never leaves Peter’s.

“Exactly,” Peter says, though it comes out slightly breathy.

She holds his gaze for a few seconds longer before she catches herself, first clearing her throat before making her goodbyes, “Bye boys.”

As she’s turning to walk away from the small table, Peter once again stops her in her tracks. “How about some speed chess? Or we could play some skittles, or blitz?”

She means to say no, she does, but there’s something oddly persuasive about Peter Parker, a magnetism that draws her to him until she’s taking the seat Flash gives up for her opposite Peter and settling in for some speed chess, agreeing to bet $5 per game.

Like when they faced each other in Las Vegas, MJ finds herself flustered by Peter. He continuously beats her round after round, making her pay up five bucks with each humiliating defeat yet with every defeat she finds herself more determined to beat him, staying for another round, then another, and another.

A small crowd of fellow chess nerds starts to gather around them, all witnesses to Peter’s continual victory over her. He’s so good at speed chess, better than her, moving each piece almost on instinct without having to think about it in direct contrast to the way she likes to carefully study the board and consider every possible move and resultant outcome, something which she suspects makes her especially shitty at speed chess.

She perseveres going round after round with him, partly because her pride refuses to let him win continuously without even attempting to fight back and partly because the way her head buzzes and her nerves thrum just beneath the surface of her skin as she plays Peter is like nothing she ever feels during her other games, none of her opponents getting under her skin and throwing her off her game quite like Peter Parker does.

Eventually she decides he has humiliated her enough and calls it a night, escaping to her dorm despite Peter’s protests that they carry on playing speed chess or another game of her choosing, anything, just _stay_ Michelle he tries to plead to her but she leaves anyway.

When she gets back to the small dorm she slams the door behind her, taking a moment to lean her head back behind her as she tries to catch her breath and calm her racing heart, something she pretends is because of the short jog across the quad back to her dorm.

She eventually pushes off the door, stepping out of the tennis shoes she’d slipped on earlier before she grabs the robe that sits draped over the back of the desk chair that looks like it’ll break the moment she puts any of her weight on it. She wraps the robe around herself and lies on the bed on top of her blankets, flipping the collar of the robe up and taking a deep breath in. She hasn’t dared to wash it in the last few months, meaning it still retains the smell that’s a mixture of vanilla, the floral perfume, dust, and something that’s so _Anna_ that immediately calms her racing mind, reminding her of the warmth and affection her aunt always showered her in.

She falls asleep just like that, swaddled in Aunt Anna’s robe on the uncomfortable, lumpy dorm bed.

* * *

She spends the majority of the day they have off until the final going over each match she’s played against Peter, the one in Vegas last year and all the speed chess games from the night before, a new determination driving her.

When she starts to feel a headache coming on, and her eyes start to cross slightly as she reads the text in front of her she decides to take a break and go for a walk across the campus.

As she wanders around, watching the young students who are around her age mill about the college, she feels that longing pang for what could’ve been and the alternative route her life could’ve taken. She had a non-traditional upbringing to say the least, moving to California from New York to live with her aunt after both her parents died then spending the better part of her teenage years travelling across the country and out of it too with Aunt Anna to go to chess tournaments.

She cherishes the memories she made travelling with Anna and sharing hotel rooms with her, wouldn’t change it all for anything in the world, but there’s a small part of her that wonders about what it would be like to be wandering the campus of Ohio State not as a chess player staying here temporarily for a competition but as one of the thousands of students that are going about their day around her, going to and from classes, hanging out with friends, doing normal everyday young adult things.

Her gaze lands and lingers on a couple sat on the grass opposite where she’s sitting on a bench on the edge of the quad. The girl sits with the guy’s head resting in her lap, one of her hands running though his hair whilst the other holds up a book whose title MJ can’t make out from here that the girl reads aloud to him. MJ can’t tear her gaze away from them and continues to stare at them, transfixed, and a lump forms around her throat which she has to swallow down as she feels a pang of _something_.

“Michelle Jones,” Peter greets as he appears beside the bench, seemingly out of nowhere.

MJ rolls her eyes at his presence, an automatic response to him at this point.

He settles onto the bench next to her without waiting for her to invite him to sit down with her or to even respond to his supposed greeting.

“Sorry about last night,” he says, this time his voice is much quieter, more unsure than she’s used to from him. “I wasn’t trying to hustle you or anything.”

“Weren’t you?” she asks, eyes narrowed challengingly at him.

“No, I swear to God,” he puts his arms up as he speaks, a gesture meant to convey his innocence.

She regards him for a moment, then, “Are you trying to psych me out ahead of tomorrow?”

“What?” he asks with an amused snort. He sees the way her facial expression doesn’t shift, clearly not joking and he schools his own features. “No, I don’t need to do all that.”

She raises a single brow at him.

“You’re probably gonna win tomorrow.” A pause, then, “You’re the best player here.”

And without sounding cocky, MJ already knows she’s the best player in this competition. Looking at all the matches each player here has played over the past year, she has played the most and won the most, winning against high ranked players which places her firmly as the current best player in the country. She knows this, and yet she feels an exuberance bubble up within her at hearing him say those words.

Ridiculous.

“You beat me yesterday,” she argues. “Repeatedly.”

Peter scoffs incredulously. “Yeah but that doesn’t count. That’s speed chess and I’m better at speed chess than you are. I play a lot of it in New York.”

“You beat me in Las Vegas.” MJ has no idea why she’s even arguing with him so much about her prowess as a chess player, but maybe losing round after round of speed chess to him last night has caused a niggling insecurity to creep up on her. Or maybe, she just wants to hear him compliment her chess playing more, though she’d never admit that.

“That was a while ago,” Peter presses on, waving his hand dismissively. “You were too hung up on doubling my pawns. I don’t think I could get away with that again though. You’re a better player than me, by miles.”

MJ feels something constrict in her chest at his words, a small, hopefully inaudible, gasp escaping her before she leans forward on the bench. “Do you ever go over chess games in your head when you’re alone? Play all the way through them?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, vulnerable and anxious about what his response will be.

Peter narrows his eyes almost disbelievingly at her. “Yeah. Doesn’t everybody?"

He offers her a small smile which she easily returns. She thinks back to when she was still learning the game and she’d tried to explain to Harrington that she could visualise a chess board and make each piece move, play a game the whole way through by herself just like that, and he’d looked at her with a glazed over look, clearly not understanding. She thinks back to the final conversation she had with Harry before he left her place and decided he needed to focus on school and on his predestined path to take over OsCorp, how he’d all but told her she was too fixated on chess, and it would not end well for her.

Yet here Peter Parker sits, reassuring her that’s it’s normal to be so consumed by the game, to go over plays over and over again in your head even long after the game is finished. She feels a sense of camaraderie, a sense of being seen and understood in a way she has never felt before.

She smiles again at him, then bites her lip to stop herself from grinning too widely.

* * *

For as much as she’d built up her and Peter’s rematch, MJ is shocked at how quickly and almost underwhelmingly it all finishes. 30 moves and she manages to snatch the title of US champion from him without even so much as breaking a sweat.

There’s applause coming from the very small audience of local reporters and other chess players they’ve both beaten on their way here, but MJ barely pays attention to them. Her focus is drawn to Peter, to the weight and warmth of his hand that’s wrapped around her smaller one as he shakes her hand in gracious defeat.

He smiles at her and mouths something at her but she doesn’t catch it over the sound of audience. When she asks him to repeat what he just said, he shakes his head and lets go of her hand before he turns to regard the audience and throw them dramatic air kisses. He’s always been a bit of a showman.

Following his lead, MJ also turns to face the audience though she doesn’t blow them kisses, instead just smiling politely at them all.

Her smile never falters as she accepts her trophy and shakes the hands of tournament organisers, donors and her fellow players. She revels in the warm feeling of her victory as something that she’s worked so hard o achieve.

There is a certain melancholy that underscores the moment, a reminder of who _isn’t_ here to witness this moment and cheer her on from the crowd. No one had believed in her and cheered her on quite as much as Aunt Anna who was there from her first competition. At age 16, MJ told Aunt Anna she’d be US champion by the time she was 21 and today, aged 19, she has won the title.

MJ wishes Aunt Anna was here so much her chest aches, but she swallows down the creeping grief before it can swallow her whole and drag her down into that deep, dark pit; she doesn’t think she has anything left in her to dig and claw herself out of it again.

Once all the celebrations die down, Peter approaches her near the exit as she’s headed out back to her dorm. “How about a drink at the student’s union to celebrate your victory and my humiliating defeat?”

“Need to drop off my trophy first. You know, the one I got for being the new US champion,” she teases.

Peter just snorts and shakes his head, though a smile remains stretched across his face. “I can meet you there in ten minutes?”

Still jubilant off the high of her win, MJ counters him, “Meet you there in _five_.”

Peter raises his eyebrows in surprise, though he seems pleasantly surprised before he nods and turns to head in the direction of his own dorm room, leaving MJ to head to her own.

After dropping off the trophy and splashing her face with some cold water, she rushes across campus to the bar where she finds him waiting for her by the bar, sat on a stool with an empty one next to him for her.

“I never thought you’d let me trade queens,” Peter jokingly commiserates about his loss as they start to make their way through the beers he ordered for the both of them.

“I didn’t think so either,” MJ responds with an easy shrug.

“Thirty moves man, Jesus.”

Peter brings out a lightness in her that she can’t help but to tease him. “Was it really _that_ many?”

“Uh ha ha, good one,” he says, rolling his eyes at her though it seems oddly fond.

“You know Peter, some guys would get all defensive and mean after getting their title taken from them by a _girl_.”

“Well, you’re not a girl,” Peter declares easily, his eyes moving up and down over her from her face down to her legs which are bared by the midi-length dress she’s wearing. Realising he’s been caught staring, his eyes snap back to her face before he quickly clears his throat and turns to the bottle of beer in his hand. “And I can assure you I’m raging inwardly at my defeat. It just doesn’t show.”

He takes a few sips of his beer and they settle into a comfortable silence for a stretch of time. As MJ watches him bring the beer bottle up to his lips, take a sip then swallow it, she’s struck by just how much she wants him. She doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anyone like this before— not Brad who she slept with simply because she was curious about sex and wanted to get it over with, and certainly not Harry who had just been there for her, staying with her and checking in on her after she lost Aunt Anna.

She wants Peter in a way that almost overwhelms her. She’s on her second beer but she thinks the warmth buzzing in her head and all through her, spreading out over her cheeks and pooling in her belly, her center pulsing with it, is more because of Peter than the alcohol. Their match, short as it may have been, is the most she’s been challenged and excited in a very long time; their tête-à-tête being something like foreplay. She crosses her legs to try and relieve some of the growing pressure between them.

“So, what are you gonna do about Fisk?” Peter asks, interrupting the silence they’d settled into.

“I—I don’t know,” MJ admits quietly. “I don’t even have a passport or the right clothes for Paris.”

“I’m not talking about Paris. I’m talking about Moscow.”

MJ turns to face at that. “Moscow?”

“The Moscow Invitational,” Peter says it like it should be obvious, and MJ decides she doesn’t like his tone. Almost as if sensing her reaction to him, he softens his voice, “The US champion gets invited to it, you didn’t know?”

MJ prides herself on her expansive knowledge of chess and everything related to it, so this apparent gap in her knowledge stings in an unexpected, slightly immature way. She turns to the bartender to order two more beers instead.

“How do I get to Moscow if I go?”

“When I went, the Federation paid for my ticket, then I got donations for the other costs,” Peter explains.

“Did you have a second?”

“Ned. Ned Leeds.” MJ eyes him curiously at that, so he adds, “It’d be tough to go to Russia on your own, and Ned is my best friend.”

“That’s adorable.” She pauses to take a sip of the new beer bottle the bartender just dropped off, then, “Who else will be playing in Moscow?”

“Four top Russians and four other countries, the US being one. I think this year it’ll be the champions from…”

Peter starts to explain the ins and out of the tournament to her but she’s decidedly not listening, having made the decision to act on her all-consuming desire somewhere between the first and fourth sip of her third bottle of beer. As he’s talking she reaches her hand forward to brush her fingers across his unruly eyebrow, under some guise of trying to straighten the hairs. “Your eyebrow,” she breathes out, drifting closer and closer to him until she can feel the heat emanating off his body, smell the faint smell of his cologne, subtle and not overpowering, yet inviting. “It’s… _cute_ ,” she settles on, before she pulls her hand away.

She remains close enough to him to hear the way he gasps breathlessly then swallows audibly, his eyes briefly roving over her face with a mixture of desire and curiosity marring his face. “Uh huh, sure.” There’s a pause then he carries on, “So, what about Moscow?”

“Seven other chess champions is a lot of chess champions for me to face.”

“Yeah, but you could easily take them all,” he says it assuredly and his clear faith in her makes her want to believe in herself, too.

“Fisk humiliated me in Mexico City,” she quietly admits something she hasn’t admitted to anyone since that fated match.

“When do you go to Paris?” Peter asks as he finishes off the rest of his beer, only his first.

“In five weeks.”

He places the now empty bottle on the counter then turns to her. “Well, you’ll need a good trainer. Definitely not Harry Osborn.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, you’ll need someone…better. Someone more, um, mature.”

“That's questionable,” she teases.

Peter shakes his head at her. “You could come to New York, sleep on my couch then go to Paris from there.”

“That’s very nice of you.” She turns away from him and starts to play with the label of her beer bottle, peeling it away from the glass. “I’m not even sure I want to go to Paris anymore.”

“What are you gonna do instead? _Study_?”

“Fuck off.”

“Michelle—”

She can tell he’s about to try and convince her and she needs to stop him in his tracks. “I’m scared of Fisk.”

Peter sighs audibly, then, “Fisk beat you because you weren’t ready.”

“I don’t even know if I’m, you know, good enough.”

“You’re the best player I’ve ever gone against, Michelle,” the admission comes out in a voice that’s barely above a whisper.

And once again, she finds herself being persuaded by him. There’s something about Peter Parker. “Okay fine, I’ll come to New York.”

“Okay, great!” he exclaims as he reaches into his pocket to fish out his wallet and settle their tab. “We’ll leave from here. I’ll drive us tomorrow afternoon.”

He gets up off his seat and grabs the plaid shirt that hangs over the back of the stool and MJ watches the way his arms move, t-shirt stretching deliciously as he moves to put the shirt on over it. “About the sex?” He asks, causing MJ to perk up slightly though she tries to hide just how interested she is in the idea of sex with Peter Parker. “Forget it, it’s not a good idea.”

He then walks out of the bar without giving her the chance to even respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, for people who've watched the show I won't be dealing with Beth's addiction/alcoholism as it felt inappropriate to turn it into fodder for fanfic but pls don't mistake that as me dismissing its importance to the narrative; I'm very passionate about addiction and how it's portrayed in pop culture. Also, bits of dialogue in this fic are lifted verbatim from the show bc idk shit about chess lmaooo. Anyways, hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this v self-indulgent au literally no one asked for lol and as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!!!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://tvfanatic97-2.tumblr.com/) and on [twitter](https://twitter.com/dayaspsychic) should you want x


End file.
